The irony in all of this is a familiar function of Burger’s archetype. Let’s pretend he sold himself from the very beginning in an entirely different way:
Mick Stryder’s story is one of sin and redemption, of failure and triumph. Stryder struck out of the Rangers, never reaching his childhood dream. After that, his life spiralled out of control. Discharged from the military, Stryder sunk to his lowest ebb, associating with criminals, and ultimately being convicted and sentenced to penal servitude for a serious felony.
It was during his time in prison that Stryder realised he had to turn his life around. He began to plan a better future, making top quality, rugged knives that would serve his former comrades, the men and women who had reached that pinnacle of excellence. And thus was born Stryder Knives.
But, as is often the case, the very things that could make Burger’s story compelling, sympathetic even, are deliberately obfuscated, probably due to feelings of shame and denial. It’s a classic syndrome.